Ab Initio
by Missilence
Summary: ab in·i·ti·o (adverb): from the beginning. When you fall asleep, you don't expect to wake up in a strange body in a strange place, especially not set in a definitely real Mass Effect universe. Follow me from my beginning moments in a foreign yet familiar universe as I manage to survive when all the odds are stacked against me with the help of a few familiar faces. SI.
1. In Which I Ache

It's dark. Pain, pain, all I know is pain. My head feels like it's on fire- and not in the headache sense, either. More like I've bashed my head in all over and now my skull is nothing more than a shattered egg shell.

_Ow. Shit. Home? No. Bad dream. Nightmare. Fuck. HolygoddamnmotherfuckingJESUS it hurts it hurts it hurts so much why am I not waking up this is only a dream wake up wake up WAKE UP-_

I can't help it. I scream, involuntarily convulsing. The convulsions are only held at bay from the blurry surrounding figures- when did my eyes open?- from what feels like multiple restraints around my wrists, ankles, legs, neck, waist, anything that could possibly be strapped down to a table.

_Why? What'sgoingon? I dunno. I dunno. Bad. Badbadbad. Goddamnfuckinghurtpain. White coats- orange spot- fuck can't focus can't think can't feel anything but the fire and it hurts so much- _

"Holy shit- she's awake!"

"What? How is that even possible?"

"Stay calm. Give her more sedative. That'll knock her right back out."

"We've already given her enough to knock out an elephant. You sure that's safe, boss?"

"Right now the only thing more detrimental to her health is the brain damage she'll cause by thrashing about while I'm attempting surgery! Damn, we're lucky she didn't wake up when the probe was in… could have caused some seriously irreversible damage."

_Surgery? Brain surgery? Car accident? No, no other pain- only head. So much head pain. Would be worse, if accident. Another fainting spell? Maybe possible brain damage from falling. _

A sharp but brief pain in my neck alert me to the familiar sting of a needle. At this moment I don't care what the fuck's in it as long as it can get rid of the fire in my head.

_Smells like hospital but feels weird. Metal bed. Surgery metal bed? Surgery no straps, I thought. There straps here. Thinking strange. Fire leaving, but can't put into words. Pain less, yes, but can't think, eyelids falling, darkness coming, sleep-_

"Subject Fifty is reacting positively to the effects of the sedative. Surgery can commence in less than ten seconds."

_Subject. Not patient. Subject. Why subject? No name? I name. I have name. Why no name? This no hospital know. Where me? Where…_

"Good. Now, seeing as she's the only positive result we've had in…"

The world fades back to black.

* * *

I wake up much like I usually do. A slow awareness that grows gradually until I'm forced to admit that my conscious has overridden my sleep cycle and that a new day must be faced. I think of the strange dream I had last night-

Wait a second. This is not my bed. I have a memory foam mattress and at least three pillows. This bed is much too hard and much less comforting than I'm used to.

I jerk up into a sitting position, almost immediately clutching at my head in reaction from the pain resulting from the movement. I pause.

I'm not touching hair. I run my hands over the gauzy fabric covering my scalp. There is absolutely no hair underneath.

What. The actual. Fuck. I look around and take in my surroundings, hoping that it could shed some light on the situation.

Oh. Wonderful. I'm in a cell. I can feel my heart speed up as I begin to panic, but I barely manage to keep myself from freaking out immediately. No idea how, but I manage. Lucky for me my rational side has always been pretty strong.

Aside from the bed, there's not much else. The room, if you could even call it that, is probably about seven by seven, judging by the approximate length of the bed which is the same length of the walls. If I got up, I couldn't take more than three steps in any direction. There's a tiny desk and chair combo and- is that a toilet?

There is a toilet in the same room as I was sleeping in. At least it's not a bucket or anything.

Making sure not to move too fast for fear of hurting my head again, I shift so that I'm sitting on the bed with my legs hanging over the side. Looking down, I freeze.

It's not the unfamiliar white shirt and pants combo that freak me out. No, this is much, much worse.

My boobs are gone.

I am a solid 34B and, while I've never had the biggest chest, I've never felt like they were particularly small either. I don't remember being this flat since elementary school.

I bring my hands up to press against the complete plane that replaced the mounds of flesh that were previously there to only pause again.

I am white. That is a simple fact of my entire existence, just like my boobs. I inherited my grandmother's Polish blood and have possibly the fairest skin of my entire family.

Why, then, are my hands the color of tea right after adding a little cream? It's a rather light shade of brown, but much darker than I've ever been. I've always admired this skin tone, especially on my friend Siani, but it doesn't belong on anything attached to me.

AND MY HANDS. Like my skin, my large hands and feet have been a fact of my life. For my height, it's never been a problem and I've always been pretty proportional.

But now, THEY ARE THE TINIEST THINGS. Like, little girl hands!

This thought strikes a chord in me, and I have an idea. I stand up carefully, taking much longer than I originally thought because my wobbly knees didn't want to support any weight. I try to ignore the fact that the bed, which is about a normal distance from the ground, reaches my upper thigh rather than my knees. Looking down, my thought is confirmed.

In addition to the nonexistent chest and tiny hands, my hips are definitely narrower than I'm used to. My bare feet are, as expected after the hands, also tiny. I don't even want to think about how tall I am now. I'm tall for a girl, a fraction under 5'8 and even taller in the heels I love to wear. I don't think I can handle being short right now.

Fuck. This doesn't feel like a dream. What the hell is going on?

I move to the door, which reminds me of a vault. There's no way out from the inside. I try pushing and pulling, pressing random spots in the hope that there's a secret opening.

Guess what isn't there? A secret opening.

With no way out and nothing to do, I start to pace. It's what I do when I'm on the phone, only this

time the person I was talking to was myself.

Last thing I remember? Before the dream (which I now don't even know if it was a dream or not), I just remember putting my computer to sleep and heading to bed.

Wait. Graduation is in two weeks. I'm not home. If I don't get home, I'm not going to graduate. FUCK! I worked my ass off for four years, just completed a multitude of exams to get my IB diploma and hopefully college credit when I start college next year. And now I won't even be able to reap the benefits.

I knock on the door, "Hey, anyone out there?" I can't yell the question; just knocking on the door rattled my bones enough to add to the pain in my head.

"Hello?" I knock again, trying not to jostle the rest of my body too much, "Can somebody help me? Anybody?"

I keep knocking. Nobody answers. Each knock decreases in strength, until it is nothing more than the tapping of fingers weakly against the metal. For some reason, fatigue is taking over and I can barely find the strength to slouch against the door, limbs falling limp at my side and barely standing upright.

Nobody answers me. I can hear muffled noises, nothing distinct. It sounds like faint sobbing, maybe screaming. It's so quiet I can't tell the difference.

The only reason I don't allow myself to fall limp to the floor and allow sleep to overtake me is that it'll fuck with my head even more. Can't keep tenderizing it when it already feels plenty beaten up. Instead, I brace myself against the wall and take minuscule steps back to the bed which should have only taken a good two strides. I crawl carefully into bed and try to find the least painful position to lay in. Darkness mercifully comes before I can even start counting sheep.

* * *

A hard grip on my shoulder wakes me up. I open my eyes, panicked, to meet the unfamiliar face of a man in- is that armor? Not the old fashioned type of chainmail armor, but the futuristic hardsuit type of thing that looks pretty shiny and new.

"Come on, if you know what's good for you," his helmet-encased head turns away from me as he walks to the now open door, showing a bland metallic hallway colored similarly to the gunmetal appearance of the cell.

I know what's good for me. Despite my every cell protesting in fear, I get up as fast as I can while still acting gingerly to avoid jostling my head around too much. The man is already striding out the door, so I take an awkward couple of jump steps to get right behind him, though definitely not to close as I didn't want to risk his ire.

The height difference gets to me in a way I can't explain. I'm used to having my head even with the majority of guys I deal with, if maybe a few inches shorter than some but tall enough to have at least some part of my head above their shoulders. Here, in my tiny bare feet and almost malnourished body, my head was maybe even with the middle of the guard's back, whom I estimated to be about 5'9 or 10. No that my height guessing ability is all that good; I'm used to guessing height based off my own, not this half-pint body.

Looking down the hallway we were travelling, I could see multiple other doors exactly like the one my cell had. Some even had noises coming from behind them, and I could hear slightly clearer versions of the sobbing and screaming and what seemed to be singing that I heard last night (Night? If it even was a night- could have been the middle of the day for all I know). The singing was more than a little creepy, and it reminded me of more than a few let's play horror games I watched on Youtube. A little girl's voice singing a nursery rhyme in a creepy fashion. Just what I needed to calm me down.

This hallway is actually really familiar and is giving me a feeling of deja vu. I try to ignore the feeling and remain focus on the back of the man in front of me. We come to a door, but it's not like anything I've ever seen before.

Wait. Scratch that, I have seen it before. It's also metallic, with a green holographic interface that I know act as the locking mechanisms. Like I was expecting, the doors were the kind where each half retracted into their side of the wall.

Now, what the hell am I doing in a place with the same kind of doors that were used in Mass Effect?

The only possible explanation I can think of is that I'm dreaming but I've woken and fallen asleep in this same world. Generally when I dream every time I wake from a dream sleep I'm in a different place or I actually wake up.

Wait, no. That's not the only possible explanation. I've always been a fan of self-inserts, at least those that were written well. But that's impossible. And wasn't pretty much every one the result of some larger-than-life being/person/thing taking fate into their hands and placing some random fan in the universe where aliens and space travel and scifi magic exist?

Where's my big explanation, if that's true? It can't be.

I wish I knew what was going on.

Lost in my musings, I apparently missed that we arrived at our destination. It was a pretty open room, and I could see that there was a wide hallway leading to maybe another half of the room that I couldn't see. There was a chair in the middle of the space, with two doctors in strange rubber-like outfits standing to either side. One was a bald man, tan with prominent wrinkles on his face. The other was a younger woman, harsh looking with eyes narrowed in a glare and a hard beak of a nose.

I froze when I noticed the emblems on their outfits.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck this cannot be Cerberus. Nope. Nuh-uh.

Wait. If this is Cerberus, then I'm pretty sure I know this place. The layout, the design…

I'm on Pragia. I'm in the goddamn Teltin facility probably years before the events of the game because it's still operating and isn't overgrown or in ruins.

I don't even know how old Jack was when everything went down. Just what year is it?

The man I followed grabbed my shoulder hard and pushed me to the uncomfortable looking dentist-type chair that the doctors were flanking. Not wanting to risk injury from the intimidating man, I climb quickly into the chair despite really, really not wanting to.

Before I can even blink, the harsh-looking woman has me strapped into the chair. As much as I want to strain against the restraints, I don't want to risk what I knew would be a hard, painful punishment, judging by the glint in the guard's eye. I just pretend that this is just another day at the dentist's office and the worst thing that will happen is the disgusting toothpaste they always use and telling me that I need to floss more.

"Subject Fifty has been restrained. Checkup will now commence," the man said out loud. Probably recording audio files, judging from the way he's talking. A glance out of the corner of my eye confirms that he's, in fact, using an omni-tool, which looks very similar from what I remember in game but strange at the same time, almost surreal. These three people I've seen are real people, not just random bland characters on a screen. The same thing is happening with the omni-tool and the people; both are immensely more realistic than any game could ever capture.

The man doesn't move but I can feel the bandages on my head being removed. Being bald means a strange draft over your scalp and I shiver from a light breeze.

I miss my hair. It was a constant presence and I've never been without it, and it's not until you lose something that it strikes you just how used you are to having it.

"Scarring is present, especially at points of incision. No negative reaction to the new port in the base of skull," this was mentioned after my head was yanked up so they could observe said place, "Dr. Harton's scans show that a positive reaction is occurring, though nowhere near the levels we've hoped for. It's only been a week since the time of operation- we will allow an extra week for the subject to acclimatize to the implants. Within that week, no additional testing outside of scans. The risk of interfering with the nodes are too great."

Implants? Nodes? PORT?

No. No. Nuh-uh. This isn't happening. I close my eyes from the fascinating spot on the ceiling that I hoped would keep my attention. I take as deep a breath I can without moving too much- something tells me if I moved too much something would be done to stop it.

Teltin was (is?) a biotic research facility. Trying to find the apex of human biotics or whatever. All other test subjects were used to further Jack's abilities. I'm in a biotic research facility.

I'm a fucking "other test subject."

Didn't they all die? Except for that one dude- Abish? Amesh? Whatever, doesn't matter.

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. I've always wondered what it'd be like to have biotics but it is not worth being at fucking Teltin.

"Should results turn out reasonably well, we will have the first successful attempt at an artificially created biotic. If this ends up a failure, at least the results we've obtained thus far will be useful in yet another attempt."

Dude. I'm RIGHT HERE. Don't talk about me being a damned failure to my face. My eyes pop open to glare at the man hovering above my shoulder, but my glare slips to the side and loses what little potency it had at the returning glare from beak woman. Doctor man doesn't even notice, too busy muttering to himself and fiddling with the orange light of his omni-tool.

The discussion quickly dissolves into a highly scientific muttering between the two scientists, and I only recognize a few of the terms in passing merely because of my biology class. Even when I recognized them, I couldn't tell you what the hell they were talking about.

Luckily, the examination isn't more than fifteen minutes, though it feels like an eternity while trying to pretend everything was nice and dandy and I'm only in the dentist's office. They take blood samples but don't inject anything in- a part of the "no testing for the next week", for sure.

I've never been more thankful for the fact that I lack a fear of needles. They need to take blood samples from multiple locations on my body, so I'm speared with the tiny menaces in more than ten places. If I had to guess I'd say sixteen, but I'm trying to focus on keeping my muscles relaxed to ease the process a bit rather than keeping count. And, I think keeping count would not only freak me out even more so but also take away the small amount of calm and rationality I've managed to somehow keep.

The last needle retracts from underneath my ribs and I breath a small sigh in relief. Just because I'm not afraid doesn't mean I like them. Doctor man is already walking towards a different door than I can in through, embedded in the hallway I noticed earlier, his arms carefully balancing a tray holding multiple vials of my blood, _**50**_ etched on all their sides. The Beak unstraps me and pulls me out of the chair harshly, nearly throwing me at the guard who, form the looks of things, was simply playing with his omni-tool against the wall during the entire examination. I stumble but manage to catch myself before colliding with the hardsuit, my hand coming up to shield my head just in case. The guard rolls his eyes before walking past me to the doors leading back to where we originally came from, and I follow despite no obvious sign or nod that he wants me to follow. The doors we pass are mostly quiet now.

They're all probably being tested on right now. Unless they're at Teltin's form of recess.

I shudder. These people give drugs to kids and put them in organized fights. Hell, they put the kids up against JACK. I have no sympathy for the faculty that got caught up in the riot.

But who the hell knows when that's going to happen? Not me, that's for sure.

Ugh. I'm probably going to be one of those pitiable subjects killed in the riot. I try to ignore the dark feeling of my intestines and stomach switching places at the thought. Death happens, no use trying to avoid it. I certainly wouldn't want to live forever.

But I don't want to die, either. I'm just one scared teenager-turned-child in way over her head who shouldn't even be thinking about her own mortality yet. I'm pretty sure I'm not dreaming, but I'm not sure I'm awake.

I should have watched Inception. Maybe that could help me make sense of things.

Maybe I'm on a drug trip. I've never done drugs so I'd never know. Are you supposed to suspect that you're on a drug trip if you really are or is that a way to realize that you are, in fact, sober?

And, with that thought, I am yet again shoved, this time back into the tiny cell. Luckily, it's with just enough force that I get in completely but not too much that I fall.

The door slams shut and locks. It's an ominous sound. I try to ignore the small echo of the slam in the room and survey what I came back to.

Everything's the same as when I left, but there's a tray on the desk with a spoon. If it wasn't for the spoon I don't think I'd recognize it as the food that it's supposed to be. It's a blob of brown with the faintest smell of overcooked meat, which was almost overpowered by the plasticy scent that it seemed to emanate. Mystery meat. Yum.

… I don't think you're supposed to eat meat with a spoon. Some sort of strange, mashed potato/steak combo in one entree? I'm not sure I want to even try. I hate mashed potatoes.

My grumbling stomach makes the decision for me. I stride over, take a seat, grab the spoon, and enter a staring contest with the blob. My brain screams at me, _don't eat, not real food, gross, ew, don't you dare put that shit your mouth I already know you're going to regret it. _It looks fake. Smells fake.

I poke at it with my index finger, the rest curled around the spoon.

Feels fake.

I spoon the smallest amount I could possibly grab while still being able to get an accurate reading on my taste buds and hastily fling it in my mouth, wanting to get the experiment done with as soon as possible.

Definitely tastes fake. It doesn't only small plastic- it _tastes _plastic. And the texture- I've never been a stickler for texture, but how can you even describe something that somehow manages to be as slimy as a clam but as dry as the fucking Sahara desert. How can food like this even be _made?_

I don't know how I manage to swallow it down, but I manage. My gag reflex tries to engage at the pure grossness, and I have to hold down a couple of retches before I continue looking at the thing previously known as food.

That shit is _lethal. _And there's at least ten more spoonfuls. I don't know what they do if you don't eat everything. There's gotta be something in there they want me to get. They wouldn't serve poison for that for no reason, right?

My grip on the spoon tightens, and I shovel the largest amount that would fit on the spoon into my mouth and try to ingest it as fast as humanly possible. I try to detach myself from the eating, like I do with all my unpleasant encounters through life, reassuring myself that it'll be over eventually.

It's not until the third spoonful that I realize I'm crying. Tears are streaming down my face, the hand in charge of feeding me is shaking while the one not holding anything is clenched in my lap.

Until now, I was still half convinced that this whole situation was somehow a dream of some sort. Even when I eat in dreams, I experience nothing. I don't taste it, or smell it, or feel in in my fingers or in my mouth. I certainly don't almost throw up in reaction to the grossest thing I've ever had the horror of trying.

This is real. This is completely, utterly real. I have no idea on how or why, but I'm in Mass Effect maybe ten or twenty years before the events of the game. I'm in a body that's not my own, in a life that's not my own, stuck in a facility that I know will implode in only a matter of time and a galaxy that will face destruction.

What am I going to do?

I'm sobbing, snot and drool and tears running down my face, spoon forgotten in the pile of poison. My rationality was only a result of my assumption that I'm dreaming. Now I know I'm not.

I'm super fucking terrified.

* * *

**A/N: So, yay! First chapter! As you may have read in the summary, this is an SI and, thus, I am channeling my story the easiest way possible: through myself, my experiences, and how I think I would act in certain situations. I would be lying if I said I haven't been inspired by the multiple other SIs that populate Mass Effect fanfiction. When I read a good one, I think: _I want to do that. _When I read a bad one, I think: _I could do better. _This is my chance at doing better, though I admit that I will be nowhere near the level of my complete and utter favorite SI (Masses to Masses, anyone?), at least not for a while. While not as good as iNf3ctioNZ (...yeah had to look up how to spell that, I'm such a bad fan!), I'd like to think that I'm a good enough writer for a reader to enjoy the story and look forward to each week's update while offering advice or mentioning mistakes that were caught.  
**

**I'm trying to approach the whole trope differently. Firstly, in the majority of SIs I've always been a little annoyed at how they arrive in the world (generally omniscient being, teleportation****/actually sucked into console****, and magical transportation of personal goods that just happen to cost a lot of credits). Seeing as that is a completely personal preference, I don't let it detract from the story and almost always love the rest of the story to the point of obsession, but I've always wondered of different, slightly more "realistic" (if arriving in a different universe can BE realistic) ways to transcend universes. I have big ideas that I hope I can live up to and carry through, such as sticking to canon while also making major changes in multiple supporting characters, if not all of them. **

**Seeing as I'm at Teltin, yes I do meet Jack. If not the next chapter (which is most likely), probably the next chapter after that. I go where my muse takes me. Right now I have a much clearer picture of what happens AFTER Teltin rather than during, so this is going to be interesting. **

**Oh, and if you haven't noticed yet I do, in fact, curse a lot. This is generally how my train of thought gets when I'm agitated, nervous, hurting, you get the drill. My mother makes a mean glare when I cuss out loud, so she's conditioned me not to actually say these things in front of other people (not to say I don't cuss when surprised or in immense pain). I'm not trying to be, like, super-tough and using all this bad language. That's honestly how I think, especially the stringing together of multiple cusses or repetition of one. When calm, I don't cuss nearly as much, but if you can't tell this last chapter was kind of agitating for me. **

**I'm trying to write in first-person present, but present/past tense has always been a bit more difficult for me to get a grasp on so if you notice anything weird grammar wise or wanna offer me some tips that'd be great :)**

**Thank you for trying out my story! If you liked it, please fave/subscribe/comment! If you didn't, thank you for using your time to give it a chance and maybe drop a review/PM me about what it was that you didn't like? I'm mainly writing this not only for me to explore the alternate world I've been building in my head but also to improve as a writer. The only way to get better is to practice, so I think setting up a story I need to update on a weekly basis will act as a good incentive. Wow this note is nearly 1,000 words by itself. I should shut up now. **

**Yes, I will be using my name for the story, though I think I'll misspell or anagram my last name. My last name is pretty unique in the US (only about 200 of us) and there are a very few people in the world with the same name combination as me. I'm paranoid, I know, but identity and internet safety has been drilled into me since childhood so it's hard to put my actual name out there. I might or might not. Still deciding.**

**Okay now I'll shut up.**


	2. Mirror, Mirror

I don't know how much time has passed. Feels like it's been forever but for all I know it could have only been a few minutes since I ate that disgusting pile of most likely synthesized food. I haven't done much since I finished, only relocated from the desk chair to the floor next to the bed, staring at the wall. I've pretty much memorized every bump in the four smooth metal walls, that's how much I've stared at it just willing it to change for something new to look at before I die from boredom.

Now that I think about it, it's probably been a good amount of time. Although I'm not quite sure how much time is required to memorize walls because I've never had to resort to it.

I miss my iPhone.

In lieu of screwing around on my portable link to the internet, I've picked up a new habit of running my hand over my bald head. I think something was in the food they gave me- the pain in my head has reduced to a simple throbbing that intensifies slightly only when I press down hard on certain places. Only a miniscule amount of hair has grown in, prickly against my fingers. One place I keep going back to in my ministrations was the strange appliance at the base of my skull that the scientist/doctor-man mentioned. It's like when I was little and couldn't help but investigate the empty space left from losing a tooth with my tongue, testing out something new and strange.

I couldn't describe what it looked like, as it is on the back of my head and I don't have a mirror, but I can make a guess off of how it feels. It's like a headphone jack, only bigger. My hands are smaller than I'm used to and it takes about two of my thumbs to cover it completely- not the whole thumb but the pads. For normal-sized hands, I'd guess it'd just be one thumb. It feels metallic.

When I first felt the implant, I managed to put my pinky inside of it a little bit. I shivered as I remembered the feeling- it's kind of sickening to realize you have a hole in your head where there definitely shouldn't be any.

I've managed to reach a strange sort of calm, different from the rational calm before my epiphany at the hands of the nasty food. I cried. I screamed. I banged on the door begging for someone, anyone to just let me out and let me go and that I don't know what was going on. There's honestly only so much freaking out you can do before your body forces you to calm down, to stop with the waterworks and accept the situation as it is. In nerdy biology terms, your body can only keep up your sympathetic fight-or-flight system for so long before the parasympathetic system has to kick in to help regulate the daily functions ignored by the other system.

I chuckle a bit at my memory of the biology terms I ranted about in my exam a mere few weeks ago. I was lucky with that question- knew it like the back of my hand.

I have no doubt that I'll be having even more panic attacks in the future, but for now I'm just waiting for the next instance that I'm let out of my cell. I don't care about whatever reason I'll be taken out, I just have this need to go somewhere else. It's like when you sit for too long and get that jittering in your leg no amount of leg bouncing can fix. You just have to get up and move.

Of course, I'll probably be begging to come back to my boring, tiny, but safe cell if I end up being tortured or tested on. I'd rather be here, bored out of my skull but fearful of what will come, rather than running a maze and being shocked if I take too long or the like.

I hear the electronic lock on the other side of the door get engaged. Speak of the devil and he shall appear, or however that saying goes. I look to the door from the absolutely fascinating location I was previously looking at- you guessed it, the wall- to take in my visitor.

To my surprise, it isn't the guard from earlier. It's an older, white-haired woman, dressed not in the scientific suits of Doctor man and The Beak but instead garbed in a pantsuit.

Hmm. Pantsuits have not changed much from the past century. It's a pastel blue, which I've always associated as a friendly and nice color. In contrast, the woman's face isn't friendly, but neither is it unfriendly. I think beige would suit her better. She just seems neutral.

Better neutral than aggressive. I stand up from my position slouching on the floor, turning to face the short woman who wasn't much taller than me. Not me-me, but new-body me. This is still so weird. She gives me a cursory glance, head to toe, before turning to face the door.

"Follow me," she commands. Just like her face, the intonation was neutral yet filled with authority. I don't hesitate to follow her, spying the guard behind her shoulder across the hall in addition to the pistol strapped to her waist. I don't want to test to see how willing they are to shoot those who are uncooperative.

She turns left instead of right, and the guard falls in behind me as I begin to walk down the hallway, which was curiously devoid of the sounds from other subjects (people, _children_) I heard earlier. We go down some stairs, pass a few doorways, turn right into a new hallway, and make it to the doorway at the very end. This place is a lot bigger than I remembered, although to be fair a lot of the place was sealed off in Jack's mission.

The door at the end of the hallway opens a few feet before the woman can even engage the lock, and she strides inside at a brisk pace, prompting me to speed up a little to catch up. The office is small and simple, a sleek desk with a futuristic computer in the exact middle with a single, slightly uncomfortable looking chair placed right in front of it. Not needing to be told, I walk directly to the chair and plop myself inside it as the woman circles around and sits in the plush chair behind the desk. A quick cursory glance around the room shows no other decoration or furniture, only a window to the right of the desk (my left) that shows where all the children disappeared to- a large, cafeteria looking area with a walkway above it that forms a second level, although the walkway isn't accessible to the kids in the common area.

I double back to the walkway, seeing a tinted window behind it. Is that Jack's cell?

The lady draws my attention before I can look more closely, her omni-tool activating audibly. She begins speaking into it.

"Beginning post-experimental psychological assessment, Subject Fifty session one. Attending psychologist, Dr. Gilbert, dated December 15th, 2170 Earth Standard Time, Teltin Facility. Assessment commencing," Dr. Gilbert brings her hands to rest on the desk in front of us, her omni-tool still on and probably still recording. She doesn't beat around the bush or try to make awkward small talk, getting right to the questions.

"What is your given name?"

_Alexandra Paige Varai. _ But I can't say that. This isn't me, and I don't know a thing about whoever it it I am now. Instead, I shake my head and shrug my shoulders.

"Reply verbally," she commands me. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes for fear of the consequences, I sigh a little and manage to get it out.

"I dunno." My voice is scratchy and a little shrill, probably from all the screaming and crying I did earlier.

"How old are you?"

_17, 18 in less than a month. _"I dunno."

"Where were you born?"

_Virginia, USA. _"I dunno."

"What do you know?"

_Everything._ "Nothing."

"What is the first thing you remember?"

"Pain."

"Elaborate."

"My skull felt like it was on fire and crushed like a shattered egg. Blurry people were there, talking about brain surgery. The fire faded away after a shot in my neck, but I became more confused. Then I fell asleep."

She glances down at her omni-tool and does a little nod to herself. Probably has a lie-detector activated, too, and she determined I was telling the truth. Not like I lied, though. It's the first thing I remember since being here.

The first thing I really remember is sitting on the top of the staircase with my dog when I was like, five, but she doesn't need to know that.

Dr. Gilbert brought her hands up to clasp in front of her face, the light cast from her omni-tool making her fair skin and white hair glow slightly orange. She was assessing me with a critical eye, and it made me feel uncomfortable. I still maintained eye contact, though.

"Do you have any questions for me?" I start slightly at the strange question. Don't psychologists ask you the questions, not the other way around? I hesitate for a second, unable to come up with anything.

"Who am I?" I have to admit, I'm curious about the body I inhabit, the person whose life I stole.

I pause for a moment. I wonder what happened to her? Is she in my body? A chill runs down my spine.

Am I (me-me, my body, back where I came from) dead? Or will my family find a virtual stranger inside their Zandra? I'm not quite sure which one is worse.

"I'm not at liberty to say." I almost forgot what she was responding to, but managed to re-orient myself.

"Well then, I have nothing else to ask, ma'am."

Not true. I have a million questions and each one leads to more questions, but I'm not sure if I'd suffer any consequences for asking them, like _Will I ever leave? What do you plan to do with me? How old am I? Will I ever go back to where I came from?_

"Drastic change in personality. More willing to make eye contact, follow directions. Speech has changed drastically, as well- she was retrieved from New York City and had an obvious accent but now speaks with intonations more along the lines of the American South, but subtle, suggesting that it's not the deep South. My observations conclude that the artificial node surgery and brain stimulation to activate those nodes result in a loss of memory and alteration of personality. Surgery to enhance Subject Zero's nodes are not recommended until further examination of Subject Fifty."

Of course they'd want to enhance Jack's abilities. She's strong enough without them, there's no reason to continue subjugating her to surgery or experiments. Sometimes the best isn't always better. But of course, this is Cerberus we're talking about. They only want what's best for humanity. I call bullshit. They want power, and that's why I hated working with them in the second game despite being the best shot at saving the human race from Reaperification.

Dr. Gilbert, either ignorant of or ignoring my glowering, turns off the omni-tool and turns toward the guard standing by the door.

"Jones, escort Subject Fifty to the common area. We're done here." With that, she turns to her futuristic desktop and doesn't spare me another glance. Fine with me.

Before the guard- Jones- can grab me, I'm already up and out of the chair, striding to stand next to him and waiting for him to move forward.

I'm a fast learner and I prefer not to be manhandled and shoved. Jones scowls, his pudgy face wrinkling up unpleasantly, but moves forward to open the doors. Only a few doorways down is the gateway to the other children.

Prisoners, more like. As soon as we walk through, I see about thirty or forty other kids spread out amongst the tables, most sitting by themselves or in twosomes but a few groups of three or four. There's a good amount of talking- not so much that it assaults the ears, but it's not quiet in here, either. The doors swoosh shut behind me, and I take a glance over my shoulder to see that Jones has disappeared and the lock was engaged, glowing red. Great.

I take a moment to continue looking at the surrounding scene. There are a few tablets- pads? Datapads!- scattered about, but only a few are being used. Even fewer are being used for their true purpose, a good couple of datapads filling in for the absence of any balls or toys and acting as a type of frisbee or maybe a simple practice in biotic lifts.

One flies into the wall following a kid's motioning. His resulting flinch tells me that's not the reaction he wanted. No experts here, that's for sure.

I look up from the ground level to the surrounding walkways and make eye contact with the darkened window keeping vigil over the kids. If Jack's here, that's a one-way mirror concealing where she is. I maintain the stare for another awkward moment, but look away when I realize that there's probably a million cameras and more than a good chance someone would catch on to the fact I'm suspicious of the mirror. One of the tables closest to the mirror is empty with two datapads on it, so I walk that way, ignoring the stares from the other kids I could see out of the corner of my eye.

You can tell they've been through hell. Their stares are haunting, vacant, as if they've had to separate their souls from their bodies in order to continue surviving. There's no way a child's innocence can survive a situation like this. I can only hope I won't look the same in the near future.

A quick glance over my shoulder confirms that the mirror is in full view of my table. It's strangely comforting knowing that a person I know ('know' being a relative term, here) is close enough to watch over me. Despite the fact that, you know, I can't actually see her myself. And she's probably more than a little crazy after years of experimenting. And there's a good chance she'll kill me. And I don't actually know her for real.

Wow, this situation just gets better and better. And I'm not quite sure if I can fix that or not.

Even if I can, the major question that lies here is: should I? Or should I let canon run its course?

If I do anything, there's a good chance Jack will change as a character. Her entire early life was based off the fact that no one paid attention to her through that window and she didn't know that those on the other side couldn't see her. Because of that, she became the all-powerful bitch who has problems with authority but is also recruited by Shepard. If I change that, it might have immeasurable consequences.

But then again, it could do nothing. And my conscience is screaming at me to at least let her know about the mirror. Psychological torture shouldn't be done to anyone, especially a kid.

But then again again, it doesn't matter what my conscience wants me to do because there is not much I can do to enlighten her of her situation. I can't scream, "THERE'S A GIRL BEHIND THE BLACK WINDOW THAT WE CAN'T SEE!" to the whole room, that'd certainly end up in my death and possibly an early riot (although I don't know what time the riot should come, but I'd rather not leave that up to me). The datapad's print is too small for me to type her out a message for her to see from the window. I lift the foreign datapad up to my face and try to make something out of it.

One of the few good things about Cerberus being a pro-human group is that everything is in English, so I can at least understand that. Other than that positive aspect, it is seriously nothing like an iPhone or a Kindle.

My closest 2014 approximation is my computer, which even then is a stretch. The good thing about being born in an age of technological innovation is that you learn to use things pretty fast. I grew up learning new technology. I'm not completely computer-savvy but I know enough, and hopefully I can learn that much. Not like there's much else to do in here at the moment.

All I have to do is play around to get a feel, it shouldn't be too hard. When I turned the thing on (luckily there was an easy to recognize power button on the bottom right corner) it automatically went to a home page. There were what seemed to be a few different apps, basic symbols not unlike stick figures popping up in a seemingly scattered order over the strange, slightly see-through screen. Not knowing what any of the symbols meant, I clicked one that was a simple line next to a rectangle.

Ahh. A drawing app. Doodles here I come.

It takes me a few minutes of fiddling to find out how to change the color I'm using and how to erase and even longer to find where you press on the datapad to bring up the home button (which looks suspiciously like a little house- a triangle on top of a square).

All in all, there is the drawing app, a word processor app, a book that seems to cover the absolute basics of being a biotic and nothing more titled _So You're A Human Biotic_, and another book that seems to go a little more in depth with biotics titled, _Becoming The Best Biotic You Can Be._

Seems a little perky for a book live human test subjects are supposed to read, but it's probably in my best interest to read over the both of them.

I'm sure that datapads not intended for the supervised use of disposable little humans have many more apps and activities, but sadly that is the extent of what is available to me. Where is Google when you need it?

… Is there even Google here? If Bing is the major search engine of the universe I may have to kill someone.

I pause for a second, then chuckle. In this universe, humans are actually the youngest space-faring species. If anything, the major search engine would be of asari design, or maybe adopted from the salarians.

Remembering what I wanted to do before getting distracted by thoughts of a Google probably long dead, I look at the first book I found on the datapad, finding information I remember glancing over in the Mass Effect wikia.

After implantation to enhance biotic abilities, biotics have to develop conscious control over their nervous system, which is apparently long as well as slow and difficult. Wonder how much these scientists will take that into consideration before pushing me to my limit?

Probably not long at all. I ignore the foreboding feeling of dread popping up in my stomach and try to make myself feel better by reassuring myself nothing too bad has happened to me yet.

Yet being the keyword. I have to force myself to keep reading and push my nausea resulting from my train of thought down.

Biofeedback therapy is often used to aid in this process, whatever the hell that is. Once trained, biotics can generate and control dark energy. This can move objects, generate protective barriers, or restrain enemies.

Another datapad crashes somewhere in the large room, causing me to nearly fall out of my chair. I look up to see two students facing off, a younger boy facing a slightly older girl, both glowing in the flickering blue of biotics. The datapad at the feet of the girl and her murderous expression suggests that she was the one who was hit, and the utterly frightened boy at the center of her rage the culprit of the most likely accidental collision. Before anything big can go down, three guards march out from the door I came through earlier and march towards the two as clanging above my head alert me to the fact that…

I look up over my shoulder.

...Two guards with what looked to be sniper rifles storm onto the walkways, immediately aiming and shooting.

My heart jumps in my chest as I whip around to the other two kids, expecting the worst. Neither one could be older than twelve, thirteen tops!

Luckily, red doesn't meet my vision and instead the kids just drop limp to the ground, two of the three guards picking up a child while the third holds his assault rifle up and ready to fire at anyone else prepared to make a move. I doubt the assault rifle holds the same type of tranquilizer.

I'm not the only one frozen in their seat. Looking at the utterly terrified and cowed looks on some of the younger kids faces, I wouldn't be surprised if a few even wet themselves.

The three march out, the two carrying the kids not treating their cargo as preciously as I've seen most kids carried. They seemed to be treated with the same courtesy given to a sack of potatoes. That is, no courtesy at all.

The doors close, and we all breath a collective sigh of relief, a few whimpers meeting the air after the immediate threat disappeared. The two snipers are still on the walkway, but no one pays them any mind.

I can understand why. The snipers could only put you to sleep from a distance. It's the guards with assault rifles and muscles they aren't afraid to use up close that deserve real fear.

Well, no escape attempts for me anytime soon, that's for sure. I'd never seriously consider it, but that show of power definitely drove home the fact that I would be overwhelmed immediately after any indication of rebellion.

With nothing else to do, I turn back to my reading.

Biotic abilities are activated through movements called physical mnemonics, physical gestures causing neurons to fire in a certain sequence, sending an electrical charge through element zero nodules and creating the desired effect. I can actually see how that could work. Thank you, Mrs. Gallagher and your neurobiology unit! Neurons and their synaptic transmissions were another favorite of mine for the bio exam.

...Which I will never learn the outcome of. What a pleasant reminder of my current situation.

The book doesn't really go into any deep details of bio-amps outside a passing mention. "To increase the use of an implant, bio-amps are used." That's it. How are they made? What are they made of? How do they work? By how much can they potentially amplify abilities?

I'm a type of person who likes to know the hows and whys. Sadly, this datapad is not the best resource for in-depth knowledge of a science I've always thought was imaginary.

Something I find really interesting is that biotic abilities fall into three general categories: Telekinesis, the use of mass-lowering fields to lift or hurl objects; Kinetic Fields, mass-raising fields to immobilize objects; and Spatial Distortion, the creation of shifting mass-effect fields which rip apart any objects caught within them. That does sound pretty cool, if not even more terrifying than the fact that I'm somewhere I shouldn't be.

I catch myself grimacing at the idea of being caught on the wrong side of a biotic warp. Or throw. Or lift.

"Hey, new kid."

The voice mere inches from me causes me to whip my head up. The comforting grin on the boy in front of me tells me I probably look like a startled deer, but I don't really care.

"What's your name?" He asks me. I open my mouth, most likely performing a wonderful impression of a fish. I know him. How do I know him? His face seems familiar. I recognize him from one of the larger groups I saw when I first surveyed the room, but that's not quite it. In my head, I age him a bit, adding a little bit of hair and stubble, darkening his already tan skin, adding wrinkles, imagining a receding hairline.

Oh, god. He looks so young, his grin as bright as possible despite the conditions we're all in. The voice I hear is in no way similar to the hardened, deeper monotone I remember.

"First day jitters? That's okay, I can help. We can all help. My name's Aresh."

* * *

**Thank you, Mass Effect wiki and all the contributors to the biotics page! The source of all the biotic knowledge described in this chapter was all taken from there. The extent of my knowledge before consulting the wonderful wiki page was that biotics were blue, had many cool actions like lifting and throwing, and meant migraines for Kaidan. Oh, and had something to do with gravity. And causes explosions when put together correctly. **

**I love Mass Effect but scholar I am not. **

**Sorry this took so long to put up, a combination of work and lazy. I don't work full time or anything, but enough that my lazy self wants to simply enjoy itself and either play video games or read during any and all free time. **

**I love writing and especially love developing this story, but it requires too much thinking when I could, for example, try to finish my latest Shepard (AKA a vanguard I kind of suck at playing. Much more of a sniper girl, myself, but it's the only class I haven't done and I want to say I did it!)**

**Sorry this chapter is boring. Right now, the story's boring. We need some development before we can get some excitement. And I'm not completely happy with this chapter, but I'm proud of the fact that I actually managed to finish it. When I posted my first chapter, I half expected myself to just not update after deciding it's too much hassle. This makes me feel accomplished and I like that. Maybe later I'll come back and polish it up.**

**Review/follow/favorite please!**


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